She had to be a ghost.
Because of all the official White Star people he expected to meet at 526 6th Ave, a stewardess wasn't his first guess.
And the moment James scanned the windowglass for any sign that he'd found the correct address, he paused still on the sidewalk. His gaze accidentally running into hers.
A ghostly gray reflection of himself merging with the maid's on the other side of the rain-kissed glass, as the world went silently on without them.
And the moment they locked eyes, James knew from the very bottom of his heart that finding each other had to be fate...as looking into her eyes...he suddenly remembered...How many times they'd bloody warned him what a blooming American circus he'd be walking into by accepting the Southampton-New York route!
All sorts of manky goings-on happen in America, they'd said. A sensible lad like you might go off his head by the end of it.
But for a salary of only 30 pounds a month, James would take the gamble on bagsying any extra routes White Star wanted to give him, if he was honest.
And what a damn good joy it was to finally find someone "normal" around there, restoring his hope in "reet good" reason again, as he put it.
Maybe he wasn't that barmy after all. Because at last, here stood a perfectly natural woman, dressed like all the other service girls he met back in England.
And at that point, he'd take anyone who might at long last help him sort this all out.
All he'd have to do was just walk in there and explain himself to her, give his report to the White Star superintendent about Titanic, and then straight away write his family to let them know he was alive and well, and they'd all be nanty-narking in no time.
And the thought of finally returning home to Scarborough made him so merry as a grig, that James couldn't stand waiting any longer to be done with America.
Staggering to catch his balance as his polished shoes slid along the slape wet sidewalk, James hastily quit the window and searched the building for the nearest door leading into the White Star Office. Finding one such door left ajar along the snicket, which stood propped open by a little rubbish basket.
He bolted for it.
Forgetting to mind the trail of muddied wet footprints left behind as he dashed through the hallway, checking every store closet and locked door to his left and right, until he found the one he wanted.
Coming to a sudden halt behind the stewardess, as she went on tidying up and dusting the countertops, singing to herself,
"Love can touch us one time and last for a lifetime, and never let go 'til we're gone."
James's lips parted, as if he meant to say something, but second guessing himself, he closed them again.
Remembering all at once that he'd already forgotten his manners, and quickly removed his officer's cap for the lady's sake, leaving it hanging in one hand as he used the other to reach out to her.
Pardon me?
The words were silent vowels on James's lips, as he undecidedly pulled his hand back when the stewardess suddenly turned to her right. Scooping up her used paper towels, and walking to the rubbish bin to dispose of them.
James dodged around with her.
Keeping himself just out of her line of sight as he went on faffing about, trying to guess the right time to make himself known.
Moving left and then right again when she did, like a graceful tango between them, as he kept himself hidden quietly behind her.
Ashamed that after everything he'd been through, no matter his perfect manners, he still looked very much like the arse end of a donkey for any proper social engagement, particularly with a lady.
But these were extraordinary times, weren't they?
And they'd have to make do with each other.
But standing so close behind the lass now with all too much to tell, James found that his words were still caught in his throat, painfully blocked from even uttering a syllable to make her see him.
Perhaps, he hadn't quite framed himself yet, and was still fumbling gormlessly, as he just hadn't the first idea on how to even explain his off-kilter tale to her.
Or perhaps it was that soft scent of powdery violets in her honey-dipped hair, pinned up so daintily in that masterpiece of a twist that working girls always liked best.
The scent of her hair so unexpectedly enchanting, that James wondered if it were soft as violets too, falling in artful waves from under her white bonnet.
Or perhaps what drew him into pause most was that sound of rain falling on the glass of the window, and how much he felt it wasn't the first time his heart had skipped for the scent of violets and petrichor.
Had he known a moment much like this one before?
And so lost was he in trying to place that hazy fog of a memory, that he forgot to stay hidden when the girl suddenly twirled around on him. The little songbird closing her eyes as she went about in dramatic performance, belting out in her song,
"Near, Far, WHEREVER YOU ARE! I BELIEVE THAT THE HEART DOES GO OOONNN-"
And on that high note, James's ovation was a good time as any to pull the curtain on this prima donna.
"Mornin', love. Grand day, in'it?" his gentlemanly greeting stopped the show. "Or having a look at you now, I'd imagine it's a good one-"
"AHH!"
To which James reckoned he got exactly what he deserved, as the stewardess frantically dinged away at him, squeezing at the triggered bottle in her hand until it was raining inside as well as out, soaking James like a drowned rat all over again.
"Holy...fu-unnels," Emily caught herself quickly, remembering that she was still clocked in and couldn't say exactly the word that was on her mind when she realized suddenly she wasn't alone. "How did you get in here?"
"Dunno but I wish I hadn't!" James groaned miserably, rubbing his fingers into his stinging eyes as they burned with whatever matter of sadism was in the bottle squeezed tightly in her hands.
An advantageous weapon for spraying or bludgeoning the desired object, he guessed, should he give her more occasion for it.
"Oh god, are you ok?" she asked him breathlessly. "I'm so sorry, you scared the life out of me! You can't just go around sneaking up on people like that on this side of town!"
"No, it's I who am desperately sorry to have alarmed you. I only set out to ask you a question, is all," he quickly shouldered the blame, holding his hands up over his face in surrender. "But please don't work me over again, I beg you!"
And the sing-songy Yorkshire way his voice danced around those words made Emily's eyes widen, still holding him at Windex-point as she tried to decide what to do with him next.
All while Celine Dion proceeded to take back her rightful place on the store radio, "You're here, there's nothing I fear. And I know that my heart will go ooonn..."
But Millie's heart certainly wouldn't.
Sinking straight down to the abyss of the most embarrassing moments she wished to happily forget.
Had he been standing there listening to her voice crack the whole time?
How had this guy even gotten in without her knowing it?
Maybe it happened when she'd propped the back door open with her mop bucket, as she dumped out the dirty water in the alley earlier in her shift.
But why would he even bother, when she hadn't locked the door yet leading from the gift shop to the museum, knowing that the guys working next door liked to come in and finish dumping the trash for her before her shift ended?
Anybody working there would know that, so why not him?
Was he new?
She was sure she'd seen his face somewhere around the museum before, but couldn't quite put a name to it.
"Are you..." Emily's brow furrowed questionably at him as she tilted her head in deep contemplation of his face. "...from the morning shift?"
"Pardon?" James's brow rose in surprise.
"I mean, what time do you usually clock in?" Emily asked him. "I swear we've met before."
"Time? Oh right," James nodded, doing his utter best to decipher her meaning from that strange American dialect. "Quite funny indeed that you should ask. I wish I could tell you I knew even the time of day for certain, miss, but I find myself flummoxed about even the barest keel of things as of late...That is to say, in answer to your inquiry, I have Greenwich time on me, I believe."
And Emily watched evermore confused as he flicked open a golden chained watch clamped to the seam of his pocket, turning it this way and that as he tried to figure out how on earth it'd stopped working on him again.
"Only just bought the blooming thing in Liverpool, and much as I set it right, somehow the blighter works its way back around to the same time as yesternight. I should imagine that minute hand is done for now. Twenty minutes after two, it still reads," he sighed deeply. "Even so, I reckon that the sun sits at 251 degrees in the west, and the North Star, 41 degrees upon the horizon. So, I should say it to be the earliest hour of the evening. By my observation, it's as near as I can judge it."
"Uh...uh huh," Emily gave a befuddled slow nod.
And then her eyes swung away from his to the door.
As if she might spot one of her coworkers hiding there behind the tote bags and T-shirt racks with their phone out recording this progressively wild hoax.
Something was off.
Because he was definitely speaking English, but not of the American genre. And not quite like the Harry Potter variety either.
And there was something "olden" in the color of his voice. A "back in my day" kind of quality that felt more Upstairs, Downstairs, than the average British tourist on a shopping trip with his wife.
And really, after cosplaying an Edwardian personality all day, who had the energy or desire to walk around talking like a disneyfied Jane Austen novel off the clock?
A charm all too scripted for Emily's tastes.
Her eyes scanned again up his almost-black-blue double-breasted, eight golden buttoned jacket. And the starched collar white dress shirt and black silk tie. All topped off by his ship officer's hat with a defunct White Star Line wreath hand-stitched into it.
A tall, strikingly beautiful blue-eyed cuppa B.S., if she ever saw one.
Because after dealing with customers all goddamn day, why wouldn't those guys working the tours in the exhibits next door have anything else better to do than to fool around with her until the absolute last second of her shift?
Rolling her eyes, Emily dropped the Windex and paper towels firmly onto the jewelry case, letting him know that she meant business.
"Get out."